


(not) so much

by therentyoupay



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, One Shot, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(The claws are sharp, but the host of Destruction—for all of his loudmouth chaos and lack of reserve—is paradoxically careful.)</p><p> <br/>— In which Chat Noir pays a visit not long after Marinette has made a pretty difficult decision, and they accidentally make a routine. { Marichat, Unrequited!Ladynoir, Unrequited!Adrienette.}<br/><strong>Prompt:</strong> Marinette gives Chat a hickey. Adrien has a suspiciously similar looking hickey the next day at school...</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not) so much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roarlikethunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roarlikethunder/gifts).



> _4/16/16_. Okay, Rina, this is ALL YOUR FAULT. AGAIN. After six or seven months of enjoying and loving and being a part of this wild fandom, and loving all of the great fanwork and content but not having any ideas for what I could or might want to possibly contribut myself, Rina drops in with no less than SEVEN FANTASTIC PROMPTS, and of course I am weak, so here I am. 
> 
> Also: my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com). Always accepting drabble and one-shot requests!
> 
>  **BETA'd** by the LOVELY **ABIGAIL** [ [dragonsinparis](http://dragonsinparis.tumblr.com) ]. ♥

 

 

* * *

  **(not) so much**

* * *

 

 

It’s been five weeks.

So when she turns in for bed ( _just half past eleven, on one of her only nights free from patrol_ ) the flick of the latch to unlocking her skylightis as quick and familiar as turning out the lights. The feigning of sleep feels as swift and as soundless as ( _leaping from a rooftop, swinging from the Eiffel Tower_ ) her needle and thread, as the turning of a page. It does not feel quite as much like lying to her parents as it used to.

Tikki dutifully ( _understandingly, begrudgingly_ ) finds her favorite hiding place, and stays there, even after her counterpart arrives in the shape of a powerful suit on a deceptively unassuming boy.

The weeks are long, but the waiting never is, and this may still be the absolute worst idea Marinette has ever had, but if there’s a reason for that, she can’t really remember it.

 

//

 

(The claws are sharp, but the host of Destruction—for all of his loudmouth chaos and lack of reserve—is paradoxicallycareful. Marinette has wondered about that a fair bit… during one too many homework assignments, if she’s being perfectly honest, which, these days, generally-speaking—she isn’t. But more specifically, she’s wondered what it might possibly mean to be _here_ : in her bed, making out with the physical manifestation of Bad Luck for the second time this week, very specifically as clumsy, walking-disaster Marinette… as opposed to the shining, sparkly beacon of Luck incarnate, herself.)

(The mantra that flows in Marinette’s head is not one she particularly likes: _What he doesn’t know won’t kill him_ used to sound a lot more like _what we don’t know will keep us safe_ , back when the only thought on her mind behind the mask was _safety, protection, security, keep them out of this_ , _keep this_ separate.

These nights, the mantra sounds a lot more like trying to convince herself that having Ladybug brush off Chat’s joking attentions by day and Marinette letting him into her room by night isn’t the most selfish, disloyal, ingenuine act of betrayal she could possibly manage in her convoluted position, because really—it sort of is. But it’s also a bit more complicated than that.)

(Perhaps there’s a reason Chat—for all of his big talk of affection and admiration for the Lady in red; for all of his sly lines and smooth banter and positively ridiculous games and fake proposals and reckless pursuals; who is just as much of a hot mess as she was—is drawn to Marinette, too.)

 

//

 

The Black Cat is always surprisingly very careful ( _with his claws, his heart, his speed, his teeth_ ) and Marinette—

Not so much.

 

//

 

“That,” notes Marinette, with the faintest hint of steadily-creeping dread, “is going to be pretty difficult to hide… isn’t it?”

Chat laughs it off. He looks slightly dubious, but that expression could be about so many different things, about so many things _other_ than this stupid routine they’ve created over the last rapid-fire month, or the miraculous hickey that she has just accidentally tattooed onto his neck ten minutes ago. They know each other pretty well by now, after three years ( _three years_ ) and five weeks ( _of this_ ) and then some, but at the moment Marinette knows Chat better than he knows her, and she wonders what he thinks she sees on his face.

He plays offended. “Are you actually doubting the Master of Stealth, Mari?” And there’s that nip, that quick bite of revenge and playfulness that is seemingly impossible to find anywhere else, and Marinette is laughing before she can think better of it, and mostly because she just really, really wants to.

“I am _doubting_ ,” she counters, and she’s laughing as he leads her back down into the pillows, “what items in your wardrobe could possibly be used to hide it.” She’s still laughing, mostly because it feels nice to close her eyes and pretend that this is normal, that this isn’t ridiculous. “Unless the great Chat Noir has an entire collection of neck-scarves that I don’t know about.”

“Oh,” says Chat, in a tone that’s too serious to be real. “Don’t you worry about my neck-scarves.”

“All right, then,” Marinette laughs a sigh, and lets her eyes rest shut, content in the knowledge that, for the moment, Chat is quite literally watching over her. “I won’t.”

 

//

 

The following morning is a struggle, but it’s nothing she didn’t expect, and nothing she can’t handle. She’s dealt with much worse sleep-deprivation, and not for reasons _nearly_ as nice as her current one.

She’s drawing closer to the crowded front steps when the morning gossip reports start flooding in, rushing past her ears. “ _Is this a new fashion trend?”_ someone is asking, which would normally pique Marinette’s attention, but not today. There’s an exam on Thursday, and an Alya date this afternoon, and Jagged Stone is getting antsy for his new album cover, and she promised to help out in the bakery an extra hour tomorrow night… Was it possible that Chat might be free another night this week? Maybe over the weekend, after he finished his patrol with Ladybug?

Marinette wonders. Over the years past, there have been plenty of times in which Marinette has faced Chat both as Ladybug and Marinette in the same night… but. Never _quite_ like—

“ _It must be featured in the new line!”  
_ “ _No, no, this one looks familiar—I think he’s worn it before!_ ”

This turns Marinette’s head, because if there’s ever a _he_ in a conversation about fashion, it’s probably only ever the one.

“ _Did you see his new outfit? He looks_ so—”

And that’s promptly where Marinette takes her attention out of the line of fire, and focuses on making her way through the doors. Critical fashion news or no, this a particular topic she’d like to avoid.

She’s gotten over her Thing. She and Adrien are good Friends, and she has done well to remember it.

 

//

 

Which is why it’s still especially difficult when she sits behind Adrien in class ( _three years_ ), and notices that—today of all days—he has decided to wear the scarf that ( _she: designed, created, presented_ ) his father gave to him. He’s wearing new clothes from the new line ( _page forty-seven of the latest catalogue_ ) and an old accessory so familiar ( _but so rarely worn_ ) that Marinette’s eyes constantly burn with the urge to glance down at the row in front of her. Even when she _should_ be focusing on the notes that will supposedly carry her to a passing grade for this week’s latest gauntlet of an exam.

Plus. It’s still a little awkward, even almost two months after their little chat.  


( _“Are you mad at me?”_ he’d asked, with an anxiousness she hadn’t seen so fierce and so miserable since the day she found him desperately trying to right a wrong that he didn’t commit. “ _It feels like… did I do something?”_

She’d been avoiding him, just a teensy bit, and— _what do you know_ —he’d noticed, after all.

But how to explain away a calmness that she didn’t entirely feel? She couldn’t very well explain that she still liked him just as much as ever, but new… _complications_ had been added to the mix. _I got tired of pining after you_. _I’m starting to believe that you and I would be better off as friends._ _I think Ladybug is starting to fall for her partner, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle anymore._

“ _No,”_ she’d answered, with surprise and apology that had run a lot deeper than he knew… especially since she hadn't planned to ease the distance anytime soon. _“No, not at all. Sorry. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”_ )

Adrien makes eye contact with her three times that morning: first, when he enters the room, looks straight to her spot, and greets her hello; second, when she answers a question correctly in class and he sends her what she interprets as a congratulatory glance; and third, when he seems to be in need of a pencil, and makes a point of asking for one of hers. Marinette is not particularly prone to counting the likes of Adrien’s behaviors ( _recently_ ), but this morning is notable. It could just be in her head, but he seems to be making a concentrated effort to get her to look at him.

(Marinette’s patience has strengthened over the last three years. Lunch break comes quickly enough, and Marinette is able to enjoy her wondering in peace.)

 

//

 

And there he is again, asking her about the Jagged Stone cover as she reaches the steps to the school. She hadn’t even seen his car arrive. (And of _course_ , it’s _now_ that Adrien makes such a point of seeking her out—now that her stumbling and stuttering have been replaced by pleasant smalltalk and typical how-do-you-dos, of course, Of _course_.) The timing is also made a little bit more unfortunate by the fact that Chat Noir had very much been solidly on her mind.

(Marinette still remembers the night—almost five weeks to the day—that she sat on her balcony under the stars and reconsidered if she was doing the right thing, this notion of _letting Adrien go_ to help make space in Ladybug’s heart for a silly cat who didn’t actually feel the same way—when he dropped onto her rooftop because he just happened to be _in the neighborhood_ and _why not?_ and _hey, Marinette, how have you been since the last time we took down an akuma together while Ladybug was otherwise engaged?_ and _you got any snacks?_  
  
“ _Sure,_ ” she’d shrugged, because she figured that, at that point, she couldn’t have possibly dug herself any deeper. “ _Come in for some tea_.”  
  
It wasn’t exactly planned this way, but Chat stayed for more than just _tea_ and, as it it turns out, unlucky Marinette is actually really, _really_ good at digging herself into deeper holes.)

“It’s going well,” she answers vaguely, unable to erase Chat’s hands from her mind, yet still fretting with the thin worry that she’s boring Adrien. It’s very likely a residual side-effect of suffering for three years from a soul-crushing crush. “We’re making a new round of scratch-and-sniff stickers, and Penny’s still trying to convince him why whiskey-scentedis probably _not_ the best complement for sweat, but. You know Jagged.” And wow, out of all the topics she chooses to actually talk to him about for the first time in forever, _this_ is what she’s talking about. Sweat and whiskey. Yeah, right. “Anyway. How is the promotion of the new line going?” She can’t help herself; she eyes the scarf wrapped expertly around his neck. “New scarves for spring?”

“Nah,” Adrien shrugs, such a light smile, _such_ a nice smile. “Just for today… Ah. Maybe for tomorrow, too.”

“Is your dad testing something out?” She wonders if she should be jotting down notes. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Adrien has never _seemed_ super weirded out by it or anything.

“Uh, no. Just me.”

Marinette feels herself growing more and more engaged in the conversation, which is probably a Bad Idea. She has made considerable Progress these last few weeks, and it would be a shame to lose it now. ( _Besides_. She is still holding out hope that Chat Noir might not be opposed to upping the frequency of his visits… maybe not all the time— _I mean, I_ do _have a double-life to lead_ , _and I’m pretty sure he does, too_ —but. Maybe.) But this is interesting, and relevant to at least one of her interests.

“Really?” Marinette asks curiously. Adrien accepts his role as a model graciously, but she’s never seen him willingly take any sort of heartfelt initiative in it.

Adrien looks mildly uncomfortable. “Just feeling motivated, I guess,” he shrugs, then gracefully sidesteps all further inquiry with, “So… any plans for the weekend?”

(She has grown all the more patient, but she has gotten more graceful at gently extracting herself from situations when it’s warranted. The list of lies she holds draw-ready at her fingertips would be disconcerting if they weren’t so integral to her survival, and it’s this same line of conviction that she clings to when she politely maneuvers herself away from Adrien’s hints at hanging out—until others are invited, at least.)

(He’s actually in the act of asking Alya to join, possibly because he’s also gotten better at reading between the lines—or possibly because she is just making this nonsense up in her head, come _on_ Marinette, get it _together_ —when Nino makes a joke that makes them all laugh, makes Adrien shift back in his seat too quickly.

Adrien readjusts his scarf seamlessly, unhurried and nonchalant with all the grace of someone who’s grown up under the scrutinizing gaze of a ubiquitous and prying lens, so Marinette doesn’t think anyone else notices the bruise that is locked onto Adrien’s collar; the shape of it so distinct and so _expressive_ that it makes her face burn. Her stomach drops as she notes that she, of all people, should not be taking note of _anyone’s_ hickey. Least of all Adrien’s.

It’s in between the one thought and the next— _I wonder where Chat is right now, and what he’s doing_ and _wait, do I have anything?? I checked this morning before I left, didn’t I, oh god, I’ll pound him if he left a mark, what if—_ Marinette reconsiders, and stills, and stares through the bubbling laughter of her friends at the trail of fabric around Adrien’s neck.

 

//

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
